100 Themes
by tombombadillo
Summary: 100 themes challenge. Spoilers for end of Season 4.
1. friendship

**A/N: This isn't anything special, really. No plot, no particular anything. I JUST HAD A LOT OF RYAN FEELS and I honestly don't think Beckett begrudges him for what he did AND I NEEDED FOR HER TO TELL HIM THAT BECAUSE I COULDN'T LEAVE HIM ALL ANGRY AND THROWING THINGS ACROSS THE PRECINCT THINKING EVERYBODY HATED HIM I just want to hug him so much. I understand why he felt he had to do what he did and if he hadn't Beckett would no doubt be dead, and I don't know about Esposito but he could be dead too AND I JUST REALLY LOVE KEVIN RYAN OKAY he is my bb and I don't like seeing him all angry and hurt because he was just trying to protect his friends AND BECKETT KNOWS THAT HE WAS PROTECTING THEM AND THAT'S WHY SHE'S NOT ANGRY. and breathe.**

**But anyway, I'm doing the 100 themes challenge which I found on Tumblr.**

**Disclaimer: sigh I'm home alone until Saturday evening and I have no money for vodka. I WANT MONEY. GIVE ME MONEY.**

_99. Friendship_

Detective Kevin Ryan is sat at his desk, head down and trying to concentrate on his paperwork. He can't look up. If he looks up he can see her empty desk, if he turns around he'll see another desk. Not empty, but it won't be occupied for another couple of weeks. All of his team, broken up. Castle's gone. Beckett's gone. Esposito might as well be gone. He saved their lives and what does he have for it? A churning stomach and a guilt ridden heart. He saved their lives and now everyone hates him. He doesn't regret it. If he hadn't Beckett would most certainly be dead, and Esposito would have that guilt hanging over his head forthe rest of his life. But he knew this would happen. He's alienated himself. Jenny's tried to talk him out of his funk, even Lanie had a try. But nothing's helping. He's angry and he's hurt because they refused to see why he did it. Why he had to betray them. His phone rings and he picks it up, not sure whether he wants it to be a murder or not. It would distract him, but investigating without any of them feels wrong. "Ryan." he says, still staring at his desk, the handpiece clutched tight in his hand.

"It's Beckett."

He can't help looking up at her old desk. "Beckett? What are-"

"I just wanted you to know that I'm not angry at you. I would have done the same if I was you, and you saved my life. And probably Javi's too. I know you're going to beat yourself up about it, but I'm not... I don't blame you."

It's funny, he thinks. She sounds happy. She almost died, the man who made her life hell got away, and she quit her job. And she sounds happy. "Javi doesn't seem to think so." he replied, head sinking down again. He's started doodling on a spare piece of paper. "I wouldn't be surprised if he decides he wants a new partner."

"He'll get over it. Lanie will beat some sense into him. Everyone goes through rough patches with their partner, and it usually works out for the best."

"You sound like the voice of experience."

He heard her laugh. He doesn't hear her laugh that much. Man, she's happy. "Maybe I am."

"You're with Castle now, aren't you?"

There's a slight pause before she answers, and he can hear voices in the background. Castle and Alexis? "What gave me away?"

"You sound too happy for someone who lost their job. And going through everything else. You're supposed to be all angry and grumpy and..." he sighed. "You just sound happy."

She hums down the phone and he can't help but smile. Kate Beckett just hummed at him. He honestly never thought he'd see the day. Though if anyone deserves to be happy it's her. "Kevin, Javi will get over it. He's just stubborn and refuses to see why you did it. But he will. He'll come back. And if not, I'll talk to him. Can't have the team completely break up." There's a sudden lump in his throat because _she's not coming back_. She's gone and so has Castle. "And you never know, we might pop in for visits occasionally. I know how much you love Castle's theories."

"So do you."

She laughed again. "Don't tell him that. I'd never hear the end of it."

"I suspect he already knows."

"Yeah, I suspect he already does."

"Will Gates let you in now? I think she's already put anti-Castle patrols on the doors. And I'm surprised she hasn't thrown away the espresso machine."

"I don't know, Castle seems to be able to get through any kind of defence that you put up. He'll abseil off the roof if needs be. Or you could just tell us when she's not around."

"That works too. Castle's not taking the espresso machine away is he?"

He knows that she knows he's not being entirely serious, but he hears her call Castle over anyway. "Ryan," Castle says, and he can imagine him pressing his ear against the side of the phone so he can hear. "I expect the espresso machine to be treated fairly in my absence. And if not, I will know. And I will not be deterred by Iron Gates when trying to get it back. Stealth mission."

"Castle, you are not stealthy." Beckett replies. "You might have to re-think your plan.

"No, but you are. I will recruit you to my cause."

"And if I don't want to be recruited?"

"You're my partner. It's part of the deal. You drink my coffee, you join me on top secret missions."

"Sorry, I am unavailable. I'll be washing my hair."

Ryan heard Castle sigh. "You don't even know when I'm planning to hatch my daring rescue mission."

"No, no I don't. But rest assured I will be washing my hair."

Ryan chuckled, glancing over at Gate's office. The door was still closed. Heaven forbid what she'd do if she caught him on the phone to Beckett of all people. "It's going to be weird not having you two around bickering."

"We do not _bicker_!" Beckett huffed. "We just... occasionally differ on opinions. And mainly because his is always wrong."

He heard Castle laugh in the background. The man is good at making you feel better, even if the world seems to be ending. "Even so." he paused, wanting to say something. Anything. "Are you sure you're not going to come back?"

"Even if I did, what makes you think they'd want me back?"

"Because you're one of the best detectives they've had. Gates knows that. We all know that. We have one of the best records in the city, and it's all because of you-"

"Ryan-"

"Beckett, you know it's true. You've always been about finding the truth, and now you're just..."

"Ryan, the whole reason I became a cop was because I wanted to find the reason behind my mother's murder. And for thirteen years... that's what drove me. Yes, helping other people find their own closure was a bonus, but I never wanted to be a cop. I never wanted to have to point guns at people for a living. I didn't want to kill people. And I don't want to live the rest of my life thinking that's the only that matters. I should have let it go a long time ago. I should have done a lot of things a long time ago."

He's surprised, almost. The Beckett he used to know, the Beckett of four years ago... hell, the Beckett of a week ago would have clammed up. The NYPD Detective doesn't let her emotions show easily. Only now... now she's quite happily spilling her inner most secrets. "What are you going to do?"

"Oh, I don't know. Maybe steal Castle's money and go on a holiday somewhere. It's been a while since I've been on holiday. It'd be nice to be able to relax, I suppose. That you can relax when Castle's around. Might even let him see me in a bikini."

"He'd pay for you to go to moon if you asked him nicely."

"I wouldn't even have to be nice. But I can't wear a bikini on the moon."

"He's good for you."

"Yeah. Yeah, he is."

Ryan smiled, looking up. Uh oh. Gates has cottoned on to him. Leaning against the wall with her arms folded, frowning. "Yeah, I've got to go."

"Gates?"

"Something like that."

Beckett sighed, and he could hear the amusement in her voice. "Alright. Ryan?"

"Yeah?"

"Stay in touch, alright? Just because we don't work together... you're a good friend. I don't want to lose that."

"The feelings mutual."

"Castle says that if you happen to go to the Old Haunt all the drinks are on the house. Esposito, too. Actually, for anyone at the Twelfth. He says it's a thank you, of sorts."

"We all thank him from the bottom of our cops pay check."

They say goodbye and he hangs up. Takes a moment. He's not used to happy Beckett. She's not even Beckett anymore. She's Kate, and she's happy. She's completely different from the NYPD Detective that he thought he knew. And it's all down to Castle. He pushed away from his desk, standing up and walking over to Gates. She fixed him a stern glare, which he returned with more confidence than he actually felt. He could do this. He can do this. Even with no Beckett, and no Esposito for the time being. He's a good detective. He can solve murders. He can, and he will.


	2. everyday magic

**A/N: oops I accidentally stayed up till half three writing this NO REGRETS I just really love writing banter between these two. And I know the song isn't **_**technically**_** accurate because what's ordinary between these two I WILL NEVER KNOW but the theme and the song just went together and TA-DA.**

**Disclaimer: if I had my way Castle would have been renewed for season 5 long before season 4 even begun. BUT YAY SEASON FIVE.**

_48. Everyday Magic_

_each morning the sun shines through my window_

_lands on the face of a dream come true_

It's been a year. A year since Kate Beckett turned up at his door, soaked wet through. A year since he woke up his bed the next morning, and he made them pancakes. And he's still not used to it. Still not used to the amount of clothes that currently reside in his wardrobe, her toothbrush next to his in the bathroom. The cherry and vanilla bodywash hanging next to his in the shower. She hasn't officially moved in, but he doesn't think she's been back to her apartment in the past month. Perhaps he should just ask her to move in properly. He doesn't think she'd say no. Hopes she wouldn't say no.

The sun is slanting in through his blinds, sending lines of light across the floor. One of them lands on her shoulder, the bare skin gloawing. He wants to reach out and run his fingers over it, feel the warmth against his fingertips before trailing up the curve of her neck, carrying on upwards into her hair. She'd kill him if he woke her up. He'd always thought that she'd love early mornings, getting up at the crack of dawn. Turns out, she was just used to it. No, Kate Beckett loves her lie ins. And heaven forbid anybody who disturbs them. Usually he'd happily lie awake and just watch her. Watch her dream of whatever it is she dreams about, until she shifts slightly in her sleep. A small turn of her head, a flutter of her eyelashes alerts him to the fact she's waking up. He loves watching her wake up. He was so used to wide awake, determined confident NYPD Detective Beckett, that when he woke up to sleepy, adorable Kate he was taken aback. Still is taken aback, everytime her eyes flutter open, automatically turning to find his, the slow, easy smile that leaves butterflies in his heart.

Unfortunately, today is not going to be one of those days. Today he has to get up and get dressed and go to meetings. Really, he shouldn't complain. He usually has about five meetings every two months, which is less than could be said for some people. He could phone up and pretend to be ill. He's become an expert at faking coughs and sneezing. They'd never believe him in a million years, Gina particularly. She's far too wise to believe most of the things he says anyway. With the greatest amount of willpower he could muster he turned away from her, tossed back the covers and reached for his dressing gown. Coffee. He needs coffee.

_i shuffle to the kitchen for my coffee and catch up on the front page morning news_

_then she walks up behind me and throws her arms around my neck_

_just another normal thing i've come to expect_

There's nothing of interest in the newspaper this morning, and he skips straight to the comics as he waits for the coffee, sat up at the counter. It's not exactly chilly, but his feet are a lot warmer when they're not touching the floor. And he's so distracted that he doesn't hear the bedroom door open, or the sound of bare feet across the floor and is only aware that Kate is awake when he feels her fingers play with the collar of his gown before finding their way around, along his jaw, nails scraping at the stubble. She leans against him, cheek pressed against his shoulder blade. He hears her sigh, and it's not a good sigh. It's not a bad sigh, either. Just a sigh she uses when something's on her mind and she can't let it go. He turns himself around, arms going around her waist, pulling her into the v of his legs. Her head rests against his shoulder, mouth hot against his neck, hands combing through the hair on the back of his head. "Kate?"

"Missed you." she mumbles, hands tightening slightly.

"And?"

She huffs. "Am I that predictable?"

"You don't do this when you miss me. When you miss me you drag me into the bedroom and won't let me leave. This is not missing me. This is something else."

She sighs again. "Kai's leaving today. He's leaving and I'm not there."

"Ohh, the little monster that you are so terribly fond of."

"He's not a monster. He's just misunderstood."

"Huh, tell that to the books that he ripped apart, the vase that he broke and the window that he smashed."

Honestly, he expected Kate to take the summer off from the NYPD and then flutter her eyelashes at Gates and get her job back in the fall. He thinks that what everybody expected her to do. And it's not like they wouldn't want her back. She's the best Detective he's met (and he's met a few). But no, she walked into the loft one day in late September with the news that she was volunteering at an orphanage. Four days of the week she spent her time with the (mostly) wonderful kids. And the rest of the time was spent wheedling money out of him so she could spend it all on them. She never has to wheedle very hard. He'd buy them a giraffe if they wanted one. She refuses to let him spend an extravagent amount of money on her. Anything she wants, she'll get it herself. Stubborn as a mule, that's what she is. But she's somehow worked her magic, and all the kids have fallen under her spell. The Loft is adorned with finger paintings and decorations and paper snowflakes and origami that they insist on giving her. She refuses to throw them away.

But none has fallen as hard as Kai. The ten year old boy who was abandoned at birth. The boy has some serious anger issues. So much anger that frankly scares Castle because no ten year old boy deserves to be that angry. No ten year old boy should be scared of being taken out of the house for fear of being left somewhere. With Kate though... Kate manages to understand him. Worked with him to get him out of the house without shrieking and crying and screaming. She gets through to him, knows how to calm him down when he's about to throw a fit. Talks to him about what scares him. And now, thanks to her hard work, people actually want to adopt him. She's his miracle worker. Though she would kill him if he ever said that outloud.

"Castle?"

"Hmm?"

"When do your meeting's start?" She asks him, nipping at his skin before soothing away the sting with her tongue.

"Oh, you know... in an hour. Hour and a half." he breathes out hard as her hands find the cord on his gown. He knew there were reasons to not go to bed naked. Somehow manages to forget them everytime when Kate is concerned. And it's really not good because now her hands are doing things that they really have no business of doing, and he really shouldn't be late for this meetings. "Maybe two."

She bites his earlobe, hears her chuckle breathlessly. And even though it's a bad idea, and he's going to be late, so very late, he reaches for her (his) shirt she carelessly buttoned before coming out here and pulls it out over her head. She stands there, in his kitchen completely and utterly and gloriously naked, her lip pulled between her teeth and that maddening spark in her eyes. "Castle, come back to bed."

_every afternoon i make a phone call, listen to the voice that warms my heart_

_i drag myself through a few more hours then head home to try and beat the dark_

"You lasted all of an hour before phoning." Kate laughs down the phone at him. "You big baby. I think that has to be a new record."

He sighs, turning to and fro in his chair. "Meetings are boring. I don't even know why they want me here. They can discuss all of this without me."

"They're discussing _your_ books, I might remind you. What's this meeting about anyway?"

"Whether they'll renew the contract on Nikki Heat. They keep humming and haaing over it and it is driving me crazy."

"And?"

"Well, that's the thing. They're bestsellers. They bring them money. And they like the money, but..."

"But?"

"I think they're concerned with the fact that my muse practically lives with me. I don't know why they find it weird, but they do." he leans back, lifting his feet up onto the glass table. Oh, if Gina were here now his head would be rolling. "But I don't know, maybe Nikki and Jameson have had their turn and it's time to move onto newer things."

"What would you do if they said no to more Nikki books?"

"Oh, I don't know. Find a new detective to follow around. Don't suppose you know anyone, do you?"

"Huh, well you know Ryan's always appreciated your crazy theories. And he's a fan."

"Youre a fan. You appreciate the crazy theories."

"No, you're just delusional. I don't appreciate the being kept awake at night to hear you rambling on about the details of what would happen if you skinned a man alive. I mean I know I was a homicide detective, but that was disturbing."

"I needed to know!"

"I needed to sleep!"

"Would you rather I went back to the ninja mutant monkey assassins?"

"I would rather you turned off the writer's part of your brain after eleven at night."

"And... do what, exactly?"

"Put it to better uses. I'm still your muse, technically. You should be spending time with me. Not monkey assassins."

"Ninja mutant monkey assassins, Kate. There's a difference. Anyway, time was you'd have been perfectly happy with me not spending anytime with you whatsoever."

"Yeah, well I might change my mind."

"I'll believe it when I see it."

Kate hummed, amused. "I need to go anyway. I have a date with the shower."

"Oh, I'm jealous. Don't have too much fun without me."

"I'll try not to. Not promising anything though. It does get awfully... hot in there."

"Don't make me cut my meetings short. Gina would kill me. Do you want that on your conscience?"

"You'd cut your meetings short whether you wanted me to or not."

"Touche. But speaking of meetings and dates, I should really go and find out what the diagnosis is. And what obscene amount of money they're going to pay me this time."

"It is just so hard being you."

"It is, actually. I'll see you later. Go out for dinner?"

"Maybe."

"I'll persuade you. But I've really got to go. I love you."

"I love you too. But I love your shower more."

Castle laughed. "Bye, Kate."

Five meetings later, Castle was finally on his way home. He'd called the car service, preferred to relax in comfort rather than in the back of a taxi. Outside the sun was slowly inching its way towards the horizon, and he was in a good mood. A very good mood. In the end they'd decided to offer him two book contracts. One or the other. They were both very different types of books, but both for a ridiculous amount of money. Now it was just a matter of choosing between the two. Though truth be told, he already knew which one he'd pick. Knew it from the moment they told him the idea. And he's absolutely itching to tell Kate about it.

_her smile will be right there when i step through that door_

_and it will be that way tomorrow, just like everyday before_

The apartment is dark when he arrives home, but there's a faint light coming from underneath the bedroom door.

"Kate?"

"Are we doing post going out or Remy's going out?"

He leans against the doorjamb, watching as she stands in front of the wardrobe wearing nothing but her underwear. She's only got a couple of lamps on, and if anything it just adds to the allure. Soft skin, the flat plane of her stomach, the curve of her waist. "I don't know. I'm tempted to order in take-away so you don't have to get dressed."

"Starting to think you're just keeping me around just so you can ogle me."

"Well, not _just_ that." he steps forwards, standing behind her. His hands wrap around her waist, fingers splayed across her stomach. He can feel her muscles quiver, loves knowing that he can turn into a quivering bowl of jelly with just a couple of moves. "It's just a very, very nice bonus." he bends his head, mumbles it against her shoulder.

She turns in his arms, her own going around his neck. She smiles at him, that full toothy grin that makes his own stomach flip flop and his knees feel a little too wobbly for his liking. She tilts her head slightly, one half of her face caught in light, the other in shadow. "So... are we going out or you ordering in, because I am really, really hungry."

"Really hungry?"

"Absolutely starving."

"Then I should do something... about filling you up." he said, pushing her back up against the wardrobe.

"I don't know, I was looking forward to some _actual_ food." Kate replied, tipping her head backwards, eyes closed, hands moving upwards into his hair. "And cheesy innuendo's don't work for me, Castle."

"Hmm, no. I know what works for you." he wrapped an arm around her waist, pulled her forward slightly before lifting his hand up to trace down her spine. Slowly. He can feel each bump and groove. She groaned, lip disappearing between her teeth, arching towards him. Her forehead lands on his shoulder, which she shouldn't have done because now... now he has full access to the back of her neck. She jerks against him, hips pushing against his, gasping into his ear. "You are so evil."

He laughs again, he trailed his hand up her spine again, pausing mid-way to undo her bra strap. "Don't I know it."

"What happened to going out again?"

"You were walking around in your underwear. How is a man supposed to be able to resist?"

"I don't know, but if you don't have me on that bed in the next five seconds I'm going to have to resort to drastic measures."

"Is that a threat?"

"Told you, I'm only here for your shower."

"I'm beginning to suspect that shower has magical properties."

"_Castle._ Bed. Now. "

_wouldn't change one single thing about it_

_no, it's run-of-the-mill, still i can't live without it_

_it's ordinary plain and simple_

_typical this everyday love_


	3. running away

**A/N: Castle and Beckett thoughts the summer after Knockout. Not really sure what this is but it's midnight and I am absolutely boiling because stupid Britain and its stupid mini heat waves IT'S TOO HOT.**

**Disclaimer: sighs because no.**

* * *

_13. Running Away_

Richard Castle has never been one for running away. Face everything head on. It's what he does, what he always does. Running away doesn't get the problem solved. Running away is ignoring it. Beckett never ignored problems either. She faces them down with a quiet determination or a stubborn rage that has him searching for cover. Once she sets her eyes on something, she keeps going until she's got it. Not a lot can stop her. Unless it's a bullet. Bullets are effective. Tearing through flesh and muscle and tissue. Bleeding out onto the grass. Immobilised. Dying. Dead. It's hard to ignore that.

Beckett seems to be able to do that though. It's been a month since he saw her in the hospital looking weary and broken and hurt. But she was alive. And she's seemed to have forgotten that he watched her die in that ambulance. Watched her flat line. Watched her die. No pulse, no heartbeat, no flutter of eyelashes, no smug grin. No nothing. She was gone. Gone because she was too stubborn to realise that she was so much more than her mother's murder. The conspiracy. She lived -lives- by it, forgetting that her own life was just as important. And now it had killed her. Or so they all thought. He owed it to Dr. Mot- _Josh_ - owed him her life, regardless of whether the cardiac surgeon blames him for Kate's shooting.

He didn't expect her back at the precinct. Didn't want her back at the precinct, but she's out of the hospital. He knows that. And even if she doesn't remember what he said, he at least expected a phone call. Anything, just to let him know she's okay. But no, she's running away from him, just like she's running away from everything else. He doesn't know what being shot in the chest feels like, and he doesn't want to find out, but he knows that if that ever happened he wouldn't be running and hiding. He'd want to surround himself with the people he loves, remind himself (and them) that he's alive. That his heart is still beating, and his blood is still flowing and his lungs are still drawing in oxygen. He'd need that. But he's not Kate, and Kate's not him.

Kate is stubborn and likes to pretend she's strong when really she's falling apart on the inside. Hates showing any sign of weakness. Falls apart in the solitude of her own bedroom. Away from prying eyes and searching questions. It's infuriating and annoying and frustrating and all he wants is a phone call. He doesn't care if she doesn't love him back (maybe a little bit - not that it matters seeing as she doesn't remember anything) he just wants - _needs_ - to know that she's as okay as she can be.

He's tempted to drive up to the cabin. Even if it's for all of five seconds, just so he can see her and hear her and know that she's alive, still alive. Really he knows he's panicking over nothing. If something had happened to her then he would know. Ryan, Esposito and Lanie would all know. They would tell him. It's what constantly goes through his mind, day after day. Regardless of secret phone calls and blackmail and hidden files, he can't trust them. Can't trust Mr. Smith or the people he has a deal with. And it's a problem because it's all that stands in the way of Kate being alive and Kate having another bullet in her heart. And he's not sure she'll be quite so lucky this time. And he can't investigate. Can't help her bring down the people who made her life hell, who nearly wiped her out of existence. The one problem he has to run away from.

* * *

Kate Beckett wishes she could say she's not running away. She wishes she could say a lot of things. But the truth is, she is running. Running away from the cop in her, from the job, her badge, her gun. She doesn't want to run away from him. She doesn't but she has to because he's so caught up in the conspiracy whether she wants him to be or not. She told him she wanted him there when she finally caught the sons of bitches that had her mother killed. And she thought it was over. After twelve years she thought it was done. But no, there was still someone, someone higher up in this conspiracy. Still someone who wants her dead.

The thought keeps her awake at night. Keeps her dreams haunted. Crosshairs on her back, a sniper in the woods, a bomb in her wardrobe. She wakes at night screaming, trying to muffle the noise with her pillow. It never works. Her father seems to have a built in radar, and he's in her room rocking her as she cries into his shoulder. She hates it. She hates herself for being too scared to step out of the front door every day. Hates her mother for being dead. Hates the scars that pull at her skin.

The scar on her chest doesn't bother her. It should, but it doesn't. It's the scar on her side where they ripped apart her chest that has her gasping over in pain, eyes squeezed tight against the harsh pain that sears through her, leaves her motionless. She doesn't like using the painkillers the hospital gave her. They leave her feeling dopey and too out of it to feel at all safe. Her limbs are heavy and not entirely under her own control and she doesn't think she can reach for her gun in time if she ever needed to defend herself.

Josh says she's fine. Josh says she's safe. She tells Josh to shut up and to get out. He doesn't come back. She sits and she stares at her phone for the majority of the day. Wanting to phone Castle. She needs to phone him. Except she can't, because if she does that he's going to ask her if she's okay. And she doesn't think she is. If she hears his voice, even over the phone, she's going to go straight back to the moment in the graveyard. Lying flat on the grass, pain ricocheting around her body, Castle hovering above her _stay with me, Kate. I love you, Kate. I love you_ and then blackness complete and utter blackness with no sense of time or space. Just her. Surrounded by dark. She'd have a panic attack down the phone, and he'd come running. And that would just make it worse. So, she just sits and she stares.

Sometimes she makes it outside. To the porch. Them the end of the garden. Short works into the wood with her father. Then on her own. Then she realises she's been here two months already. Starts to convince herself that she is safe. It's been two months and if they really wanted her dead then she would be. It's not like she has a patrol outside. There's no locked gate. Just a dirt track, stopping at the front porch. It helps her sleep at night. The nightmares don't go completely, but they weren't as often. She could breathe easier.

Of course, after that it doesn't take her long to get itchy feet. Needs to be back in the city. Her apartment and her job. The badge and the gun. She needs them back. Needs that stability. So, every day her father drives her into the city to see a therapist. She has the window down, enjoys the feel of the wind on her face. The panic returns to a point when they hit the city. She's taken to closing her eyes until they reach the therapists office. Can't see anything that she could mistake for a sniper scope. Sometimes she has music to distract her from the noise of cars. She can do it. She can't run forever. Doesn't want to run forever.


	4. colours

**A/N: I am so ridiculously sorry about the lack of updates at the minute. My laptop is currently trying to dry itself in the airing cupboard because it got rained on, and I'm stuck using my mum's laptop. And she has the habit of stealing it away when I'm halfway through writing things.**

**Disclaimer: Marlowe can afford a new laptop sigh**

* * *

_31. Colours_

They sit on the beach watching the fireworks on Memorial Day. Shoulder to shoulder, hip to hip, thigh to thigh, a blanket wrapped around them. It's not particularly cold really, but he's always enjoyed the thought of watching fireworks with a blanket across their shoulders, huddled close because they needed the warmth. Not that they need the warmth anyway. Kate would sit as close to him as she can get whether she's cold or not. His legs are stretched out in front of him, one of hers draped over his right leg. One arm is tucked through his elbow, his fingers tangled with hers. They aren't alone on the beach. Alexis is somewhere with the group of friends she bought with her, his mother is... somewhere else. He's not sure he wants to know. There's other families littering the beach, kids running free, laughing and shouting. Families sat around bonfires and barbecues and picnics. But, for the most part they are alone.

Kate loves fireworks. It surprises him, to be honest. She's been so jumpy when it comes to loud noises since she was shot that he wasn't that keen on watching the fireworks in the first place. But, as it turns out, she doesn't mind them and dragged him out of the house anyway. He's not used to holiday Beckett, admittedly. A Kate who wears shorts and t-shirts and sunglasses is a completely new Kate, and he loves it (and not because it means those mile long legs are on show _a lot_). But only if they're in the house. The bruises from her rooftop fight are still on show, on her thighs and knees and all across her torso. They're slowly fading away from the purple's and the blues, turning yellow and green but oh it still makes his heart clench when he realises just how close she did some to death.

He can see the barest shadow of them on her legs at the minute. They have no artificial light with them. Just the moonlight and the explosion of colour in the skies above them. Reds and blues and yellows and greens and whites, screamers and bangers that makes the adrenaline rush in his blood and his heart pound in his chest. Kate's grinning. One of those truly fantastic grins that he sees so much more of these days, her eyes bright and shining with so much happiness and love for him, for them, for this. He's always been one for believing in magic and fate and soul mates, but this, this right here. This is real magic.

* * *

By lucky chance his European book tour happens to coincide with Guy Fawkes day, and by happy coincidence they're in London around the time. "I thought Guy Fawkes was the Fifth of November." Kate asks him as he leads her through Battersea Park.

"It is, technically. But they usually have the fireworks and the bonfires on the closest Saturday. Well, the public one's anyway. There'll be private parties up and down the country over the weekend. And oh, there's about twenty in London alone."

"Just how many of these have you been to?"

"Oh, you know. A fair few. Book tours can get lonely when you're not allowed to bring your kid with you. Stupid thing called school. It's nice to surround yourself with people, especially when you've been sat behind a table scribbling in your own books all day."

Kate bumps his shoulder with hers. "Well, you got me now."

"Hmm, I got you." He grinned at her, before looking over her shoulder. "You want some candyfloss? I want some candyfloss."

The bonfire is nice in the cold English night, their breath misting in the air even as the heat from the fire washes over them. He can see the fire reflected in her eyes as they stand and watch in silence, sharing the bag of pink and fluffy sugar, listening to the snap and crackle and pop of the fire. A few people recognise him, come up to say hello. He knows Kate's not used to the fame, manages to direct most of the attention onto him, but he didn't need to worry. Their relationship is not so advertised over the pond, and people don't really seem to be quite so intrusive. But eventually, he has to excuse himself and pulls Kate away to watch the start of the fireworks. She stands in front of him, the half finished back of candyfloss in her hand. His arms are around her waist, pulling him back against her as the rockets explode above their heads. There's music blasting into the air from somewhere, Star Wars and Mozart and Robbie Williams and various other pieces that he doesn't have a hope in identifying. They're both amused at the ooh's and aah's that rise from the crowd around them, completely in unison. He'd forgotten just how impressive the fireworks in London can be. Oh, it has to be a good five years before he was last here in time for the celebrations.

"We should do this every year." Kate says as she hands over seven pounds for a pair of fluffy ears that flash in the dark. "It's fun."

He's far too amused at the fact she actually bought them to agree, but takes the headband out of her hands and slips it over her head. The reds and blues and greens cast shadows over her skin, her cheekbones cast into sharp relief, even when she's smiling. "We can go have fireworks in Antarctica if you really wanted to."

She shivers against him, pressing her side against his. "No, far too cold. London's good. I like London."

"Oh, it doesn't have to be just London. Manchester, Birmingham, all the main towns and cities, they'll have some form of celebration everywhere. We could make a strange once a year trip out of it."

Kate hums. "Maybe."

He flicks one of the ears, making the colours dance across her hair. "You ready to go home?"

* * *

At five minutes to midnight he brings her out onto the balcony, away from the prying eyes of everybody else. She wraps her arms around his neck, hands finding purchase in his hair as she presses herself against him all warm and soft and slightly drunk. His own hands stroke across her bare shoulders and up her neck, tickling the base of her skill. Kate hums a laugh into his mouth as he pushes her against the hip high concrete wall. "It's not midnight yet, Castle."

"No, I know. I just wanted to talk to you."

"About?"

"I wanted to give you something."

"That's not talking."

"Shush."

"Sorry. What are you giving me?"

"A ring."

He sees her eyes widen, her jaw slacken and her breath catching. "Castle, are you-"

"No. Yes. Sort of. It's a promise. One day, I'm going to ask you and you're going to say yes. Or you're going to put it on our finger and surprise me. Not now. Not unless you really want to, which is completely fine by me." He pulls a chain out of his pocket, the band of silver metal glinting in the light spilling out from his study. It's simple. Just the silver and three inlaid diamonds. He was half tempted to get an emerald instead, just to go with her eyes. But that felt a little too... not Kate. Simple. That's all he needed. All they needed. "Can I?"

Kate turns his arms, pulls her loose hair over one shoulder. Castle raises his hands over her head, his elbows pressing into her arms as he places the chain around her neck. It's cold against her neck, and it's been a while since she'd had her mother's ring hanging there instead. She touches her fingers to it even as Castle fastens the chain at the base of her neck. The softness of his fingertips against her skin makes her shiver, makes her wish the party was over so she could just drag him into bed. Instead, she settles back into the weight of him, his arms around her waist, mouth warm at the curve of her neck. Above them the sky explodes with a fantastic array of colour, so many she loses count and she feels her pulse pound in her neck, her breath shaky in her lungs. She's going to marry Richard Castle. She doesn't know when or how, but she is. Someday.

"Happy New Year." Castle murmurs against her skin, and she can't help but agree.


	5. umbrella

**A/N: YAY AU'S because it's the one thing I feel completely comfortable writing right now and I thought I should at least give you guys SOMETHING to read before I go away**

**I'm not sure about time lines here, and I'm too lazy to figure it out but Kate would be 19, Castle would be 29 and Alexis would be 4? Or something. Around those ages anyway.**

**This might be the longest one-shot thing I have ever written and every time I think it's over more just spews out of my brain OH WELL IT'S NOT LIKE I HAVE TO BE UP IN NINE HOURS AND IT'S ALREADY HALF TWELVE WHAT THE HELL IS SLEEP and eurgh I wasn't sure how to end it. I knew where but just not how BUT I REALLY NEED TO SLEEP so it's gonna have to do and urgh.**

**p.s. slight swearing in here.**

**Disclaimer: Marlowe ain't driving down to Kent for six hours to look after three kids so their dad can have a holiday on Sunday. And if he is, we are more similar than I thought. But he still owns Castle.**

* * *

_49. Umbrella_

In typical New York style, the autumn weather is absolutely horrendous as Richard Castle makes his way out of his publishers. The sky is dark and threatening and it's with an ominous roll of thunder that starts the absolute deluge of rain. He's barely two metres out of the door and he can already feel the rain sluicing down his back, through his hair, into his hair. Soaked in seconds. He has an umbrella. Somewhere. He thinks. There's not a chance in hell he's getting a taxi in this weather. And it's rush hour. The car service would take a while to get here. It'd take less time walking. Can't be more than half an hour, and with this weather there's not going to be a huge swamp of people getting in his way. He hopes. Maybe he should stop and get a take-away pizza for tea. Alexis deserves a treat after everything that's happened recently, and with her mother jetting back off to Los Angeles without so much of a goodbye... he's left to somehow console his tearful daughter. He's more than happy to do it, of course. He loves Alexis more than he loves anything, and if she needs him then he's going to do anything within his power to make her happy again. But he can't help but bristle at the idea of Meredith leaving on a whim and not sparing a thought for her own daughter. But if she doesn't need them, then they're not going to need her.

He's got the pizza box warm in his hands (it'll be cooler when he gets home, but at least it'd save Alexis burning her mouth) and he's puddle hopping along the sidewalk, twirling his umbrella behind him, having more fun than a nearly thirty year old probably should. Like he expected the sidewalks are not all that busy and he's not disturbing anybody. And when he accidentally lands in a puddle and has to stop and take his shoe off to empty out the Niagara Falls. And that's when he sees her. It's slightly cliché, with her standing under a lamp post in the pouring rain, and the writer's part of his brain takes over from the child-like part. Spinning a story, a deep and dark past, a reason for standing and looking so forlornly at the rainy night. She can't be barely more than twenty years old, though for the way she was hunching over she might as well be fifty. Looking like the weight of the world is on her shoulders. Maybe it is.

Without really realising what he's doing, he's making his way over to her. He doesn't care about the puddles anymore, he's too driven by the deep-seated need to know _more_. To know the how's and the why's and the when's and the what's and the where's. Some would say approaching a young girl is bordering on creepy (and he'd probably agree) but he's so drawn by her. The straggly brown hair drowned by the rain, the leather jacket that's doing absolute nothing to keep her from the wet, the denims hugging her legs and the ridiculously high heels that he would never ever let Alexis wear. Ever. She's hugging a bag to her side, trying her best to shield what's inside from the rain. It seems to be the only priority she has right now. Just standing there. In the rain. Waiting.

He stands next to her, lifting the umbrella above his head as he does so. She looks up as the insistent rain stops falling on her, listens to the sound of the pitter patter against the plastic before turning her head to look at him carefully. He's completely dumb struck by the look in her eyes. And the water running down her cheeks can no longer be disguised by rain water. "Can I help you?" She asks him, and he's more than a little shocked at how little her voice gives away. Firm. Strong. Unyielding.

"I... you looked... miserable." He shrugged one shoulder. "Thought I should see if you're okay."

She turned away, glaring at the opposite end of the street with a fierce look in her eyes. "I'm fine."

"As someone who's very good at observing people, forgive me when I say that you don't look it."

She turned to look at him again, her eyes searching as if weighing her options. "I'm waiting for someone."

"I hate to tell you, but no one's going to be moving anywhere in this traffic."

He felt her bristle next to him. "He'll be here." She insists, though he can hear the uncertainty in her voice. "He will."

* * *

She doesn't know why she's putting so much faith in a father who's spent the past ten months passed out on a sofa with a bottle of a whiskey in his hand. She doesn't know why she's still standing on this street corner in the middle of a thunderstorm when he was supposed to picking her up an hour and a half ago. But she's got this blind faith in him that he's actually going to be there. He just... he forgot. He'll be there, because that's what father's are supposed to do. Father's pick up their daughter's when they can't get home from college. She's not aware that she's crying again until the stranger beside her hands her a tissue. Except he's not really a stranger because of course she knows him. Can't know him after the numbers of hours she's spent wrapped up in a blanket in bed devouring his words. But he doesn't need to know that. Doesn't plan on telling him that. But she does take the offered tissue with a murmured thanks.

"Look, it's not in my nature to leave someone who's so obviously upset out in the rain like this. And feel free to say no, but I don't think whoever is supposed to be picking you up is coming. And I don't want you standing out here for the rest of the night just waiting." She frowned at him, tensing up in case there was any need to run. "I'm not asking you to come home with me. That's..." he shook his head. "No. That's just horrible. But let me call you a car. It might take you a while to get back, but at least you're not in the rain and the cold."

To say she's surprised would be an understatement. Here she is, standing in the middle of a thunderstorm, underneath Richard Castle's umbrella, and he just offered her a ride home. The majority of her – the part that lost her mother ten months ago – warns her against it. Celebrity or not, he is a stranger. Stranger danger. But the smaller part of her – the part that's buried so deep down inside of her that it has a hard job making itself heard, the part wants to just go home – fights hard. And she really can't stay out in the rain all night. It's not like her father would notice. He rarely wakes before midday and when he does he stumbles around the apartment in a blurry eyed stupor until his hands find the whiskey again. She could probably get away with not going home again ever if it wasn't for the guilt that would gnaw at her insides. He'd forget to eat. He'd choke on his own vomit. Lie there wasting away. No one would know. Sometimes she thinks that life would be better then. Sometimes when she lies awake, eyes wide with fear and her teeth biting into her fist as she listens to her never sober father rant and rave and scream and break at three in the morning. But then she'll hear him thump against the wall, outside his – her – bedroom, the one he refuses to sleep in anymore and slide down into a mess on the floor. And then, then she pulls herself out of bed and tries to keep herself together enough to get him to the sofa, get him a drink of water, and rock him into some form of sleep. Rinse and repeat. Every night.

She tucks her bag further against her side, screwing her eyes up against the fresh wave of tears. She's cried too much recently. Crying doesn't make anything better. "Why would you do that?"

"Why? Because no one deserves to be waiting on a New York sidewalk in the rain. And you look like you need something good in your life right now. And even if that's just a ride home in a car that has a heater, then I suppose it will have to do."

"I... you – you don't have to. I can walk, if I need to. I-"

"You're not walking. You'd catch your death of cold." Even the word death makes her swallow hard. She could feel her fingers start to shake, digs them into the straps of her bag until her knuckles turn white. "I'm sorry, I didn't..."

She shook her head. "I don't want to talk about it."

"Why don't we not talk about it over coffee?" She jerks in surprise, stepping out of the shelter of the umbrella, eyes wild and scared. "That's not... no, I didn't mean it like that. Just the car service might take a while to get here, and there's a coffee shop over there. It'll warm you up until it gets here."

She's tempted to say no. Every instinct in her tells her to run and not stop until the apartment door is against her back and firmly bolted and locked. But she's tired, and cold and wet and today has been a nightmare from hell, and if she wants to have a coffee with Richard Castle then she's going to have a coffee with Richard Castle. And it's just because he's being nice to a girl stuck in a thunderstorm. He's not going to drag her back to where ever he lives to have his wicked way with her. It wouldn't be the first time she's fallen into bed with a guy she barely knows because she needs to forget everything for a night. Needs to forget that her mother was murdered, her father's an alcoholic and she's left trying to keep what's left of the once happy family together. But can she really do that with Richard Castle? Her mother's favourite author. He has to be at least ten years older than her (again, wouldn't be the first time), and the idea is strangely... compelling. She's good looking, she knows that. Knows that with the right dress and the right heels and her hair just right and her eyes smoky she could get anyone she wanted. It's a rare occurrence when she gets turned away. Never happened with anybody famous though.

* * *

The coffee shop is warm and dry and he practically hears the instant relief that rolls off the girls shoulders as they walk through the door. He tells her to find a seat and he stands in the queue waiting for his turn. He has no idea what it is she wants, but hazards a guess. Vanilla. She seems like a vanilla kind of person. She's somehow managed to find a table next to a heater and she's pulled her jacket off and placed it over the top by the time he makes it over to her. She takes the coffee with a grateful smile. "Thanks."

"You're welcome. I'm Richard Castle, by the way. In case you were wondering."

She huffed a laugh. "I wasn't." And then laughed properly when she saw his look of indignation. "I already knew who you were. My mother loved your books. Never understand the appeal of them, really. Until now."

"Past tense."

"What?"

"You used the past tense."

"Oh. Right, yeah. I suppose." She looked down into her coffee, looking so unspeakably sad that he wants to kick himself for saying anything.

"I'm sorry. I don't mean to be nosy. It's the writer in me. Needs to know the story."

She turned her head to look out the window, the fall of her hair hiding her eyes. "What's to tell? She's dead. Nothing else really matters."

"Course it matters. She's your mother."

"Was my mother." She mutters darkly, her jaw set.

"She still is your mother. She may be gone, but that doesn't mean you don't have a mother anymore."

Her eyes narrowed, something resembling anger and hurt and so much pain. "But I _don't_. I don't have a mother. My mother is dead. She died, stabbed to death in an alley way, leaving me to cope with an alcoholic father who can't get himself sorted enough to give me a lift home. Mothers don't-" she breathed in, hard, hands wrapped so tightly around her mug. "Mother's aren't supposed to do that. They're not supposed to leave you. I'm nineteen and I'm trying to keep my father alive and trying to live _my_ life at the same time, and it's hard, and all because my mother is _dead_."

Oh. That's probably more of a story than he originally wanted. That's a big story. That's a big story that he didn't want to know about after all, because now he's heard it he wants to take it all away. She's nineteen. She should be at college and having fun and getting far too drunk and not having to worry about whether she's going to wake up to a life with neither parent. And he doesn't want that. Not for the girl he's known for less than half an hour. This fierce, protective, strong as the Great Wall of China who parades around in four inch heels, doesn't deserve that. Sorry seems pretty useless right now.

"I'm-"

"Please don't say you're sorry. I don't need pity."

"I- okay." They sit in silence for a few moments, each content with the warmth of their drinks and the radiator, looking out at the darkening city. "What did you mean when you said you didn't see the appeal in them until now? My books, I mean."

She shrugged. "I never understood what was so entertaining about reading about dead people. I always thought it was depressing. But then my mother died, and everything about it felt wrong. The police didn't look into it properly. They just shoved it all into a box, and wrapped it up in a bow like it was some form of present. Like that meant we had closure. But it didn't. I wanted – I need – the truth. And reading your books, even though it wasn't my mother's case, families had the truth. They knew why this had happened, and how. It helped, knowing that they did. Gave me hope that maybe one day my mother would have that same closure. That she'd have justice."

"Well, I'm glad they've helped. Really." An idea suddenly dawned in his mind. An idea that Gina and Paula would probably murder him five different ways for, but he really couldn't care. He wanted to do something for her. And he couldn't think of anything better than giving her the fourth (maybe fifth) manuscript for Deadly Storm. "Look, I'm probably going to put my neck on the line for doing this, but frankly I couldn't care less. But I've got a manuscript for a new novel in my bag. I want you to have it."

He doesn't miss the flicker of something resembling hope in her eyes. Doesn't miss the slightly stunned look that she gives him as he hands over the thick wad of paper. She holds it like it's a baby, that look of stunned disbelief still etched onto her face as she looks down at the cover sheet. "Deadly Storm?"

"Yeah. It's a series of books about a detective called Derrick Storm. I think you deserve to get a sneak preview."

"Wow." It's almost reverent, like she's holding something completely holy and he's struck dumb by the thought that these books – the books that are his life – are her only handle on a life that has spun so far out of control that there's no hope in reigning it back in. And if that hasn't made all of the stress and the procrastination and the hours spent staring forlornly at a computer screen that just won't co-operate worth it, he doesn't know what is. "I- this is. I mean, are you sure?"

"Yeah. Completely sure."

* * *

At some point in the near-ish future she'll kick herself for spilling so much of her life story to a him. But sat in a coffee shop, with warm heat carefully drying her off, and a warm coffee mug in her hands... it feels okay. Or as okay as being invited to have coffee with a thirty year old man can be. But strangely enough she trusts him. How could she not when his books have been the only thing that has got her through these past months? And now... now he's given her his next novel. It's nowhere near being out in the shops yet. It's not finished. But she has it in her hands. She's not quite sure what to say. Can only slide it carefully into her bag, along with her folders and books. And it makes her feel better. Makes her spine straighten and her eyes harden and her jaw set. She can go home. She can make sure her father is okay. She can wake up in the morning and move on with her life. As best as she can.

"I don't know what to say."

"You don't have to say anything. At least not yet. But-" he's rifling in his bag again, pulls out a scrap of paper and scribbles a set of digits on it, along with an e-mail address, "when you've finished reading it, I want to know what you think."

Oh. "You want- you want to know what _I_ think?"

"Yeah. I always appreciate an outsider's eye. I'd ask my daughter, but she has enough trouble staying awake through a Spot the Dog book. It's obvious you love my books. I mean, yeah, I've got my editor, but I want an actual reader to tell me. It feels more real that way."

"Wow." She says again. "I-I'd be honoured. I mean, I don't know much about books, but..."

"Maybe so, but you know my books, and that's good enough for me."

She smiles. Genuinely smiles for maybe the first time in a long time, and maybe, just maybe she can get through this hell hole. "Thank you. Seriously, this is..."

"Don't mention it." They both look up as his phone bleeps and he picks it up, glancing at the screen. "The cars here."

She'd been so lost in the moment that she'd almost forgotten that the only reason she was here in the first place was so he could get her a lift home. "Oh. Right. What about you?"

"I'm only a ten minute walk away. Besides." He gestures to the now stone cold pizza next to him. "Need to get a new pizza."

"I'll have that one, if you're going to throw it away."

She hadn't realised just how hungry she'd been as she'd stood on the corner waiting. And even the smell of the cold food was making her stomach rumble something terrible. "It's cold."

"I don't care. Cold pizza's nice. And I don't much fancy waiting until I get home."

He shrugs, picks up her jacket and hands it over to her along with the cardboard box. "Waste not want not."

* * *

Thankfully the car is more or less outside the door as he follows her outside. He holds the door open for her, raises a hand to Joey, one of the must trustworthy drivers he knows. If anyone's going to get her home safely, it'll be him. "Give me a bell when you get home. Just to let me know you're okay."

She nods. Smiles. "I will. Thank you. For everything."

"Not a problem. But I never did catch your name."

She laughs, and to his relief it sounds almost happy. "It's Kate. Kate Beckett."

* * *

The apartment's dark when she lets herself in. Thankfully the door doesn't squeak and she can tell from the snores that fill the room that her father is passed out in his armchair, the bottle of whiskey hanging precariously from his loose fingers. She takes it, and the empty glass, pours the remaining alcohol down the sink. It's futile, she knows. He always seems to have a secret stash that she can never find, and she's pretty sure their neighbour keeps him supplied. The thought makes her angry, so angry, and she launches the glass across the room where it smashes against the wall. Her father jerks in his sleep and she waits on a baited breath, preparing to make a dash for her room and the safety of a locked door if he starts smashing things again. But he doesn't. He falls back into his stupor. She breathes again. Picks up the phone and her bag. Door locked. Lamp on. Haven. It takes her a while to pluck up the courage to actually ring him. She sits on her bed and stares at the phone and the number for a good half an hour before telling herself to get the fuck on with it.

"Hello?" he answers slightly breathlessly, and she wonders what in the hell he could be doing.

"Hi. It's, er, Kate from the coffee shop. Just to let you know I'm home. Safe and sound."

"Oh! Excellent. How is everything?"

"Dad's asleep. Will be until morning. Hopefully."

"Okay. Listen, Kate, if you need anything. Anything at all, just call me, okay? Even if it's just to talk."

"Why are you doing this?"

"Because I think you deserve something more than an unsolved murder case and an alcoholic father. And you need someone that you can depend on. You're nineteen, Kate. This isn't supposed to be your life. It's not supposed to be anybody's life. If you need me, then you know where I'll be. That's all I'm saying. Also I may rope you into babysitting duties."

She laughs. Again. He always manages to make her laugh and she's known him for all of three hours. "Thank you."

"You're welcome. But I have to go. In the middle of an epic game of laser tag with my daughter and she can be incredibly sneaky when she wants to be."

"Alright. Have fun."

"You have fun reading."

She hangs up, leaves the phone on her bedside table and reaches her for bag. She doesn't think she's going to get that much sleep tonight. The manuscript feels different in her hands than a normal book. It's bigger, thicker, the print larger. But that's okay. She can deal.


	6. dark

**A/N: BECAUSE I LIKE PAIN**

**Disclaimer: nope I'm still having trouble getting over the spoilers for season 5**

* * *

_29. Dark_

It feels like someone's driven a sledgehammer into your ribs. You falter; the world spinning away from you, toward you, up, down, it's so hard to tell. It spins more when you're suddenly flying backwards, a blur of colours and screams and yells and you can't tell what is what past the pain in your chest. The landing jolts every bone in your body. It hurts. Pain is crackling up every nerve, burning its way through your body until all you can feel is hurt. You can't feel the ground under your back, the grass that is tickling your neck, the sun on your skin, the soft puffs of spring wind that are drifting through the cemetery, Castle's hand on your arm.

Castle.

He's saying something. You can see his mouth open and close but you can't hear him over the sound of your own failing heartbeat that is as loud as thunder in your ears. _thumpety thumpety thump thumpety thump_. You try to breathe against the dark that's closing in on the edge of your vision. It doesn't work. All you can see is Castle above you. Have his eyes always been that blue? Talking. Pleading. Saying. _thump thumpety thumpety thump_. Stay with me. _thump thump_. Kate. _thumpety_. I love you. _thump_. The dark closes in. Makes your vision blur. Or is that because you're crying. Are you crying? You're not quite sure. He loves you. Dark. You love him. Dark. As much as you try to deny it. It's dark. It's so dark and all you want to do is cling onto the light – to Castle - because isn't that the same thing?

He loves you.

You smile.

The dark closes in.

You fall.


	7. rebirth

**A/N: I do apologise for the lack of anything from me. Trying to get through a bad week and I've just not had the energy or the motivation to even open up a word document. However Miles, has somehow convinced me to do Castle/Sherlock. So. Castle/Sherlock. THIS IS HORRIBLY SHORT I KNOW BUT I'M JUST STILL TRYING TO GET INTO THE WRITING SWING OF THINGS**

**Disclaimer: I have to clean the car while my mum's away on holiday.**

* * *

_24. Rebirth_

"Sherlock Holmes."

Beckett regrets saying it the moment the words leaving her mouth. Castle perks up almost immediately, the sense of boredom that had been radiating off him for the past two and a half hours dissipating almost immediately. "Say that again."

"You heard me the first time, Castle."

"But he's supposed to be _dead_."

"Aware of that. You wouldn't shut up about it for _months._" Beckett sighed, sat back in her chair, pressed the pads of her fingers against her temple. "But they're his fingerprints."

"Maybe Moriarty chopped them off!"

"Moriarty's not real, Castle. That was the whole point. Sherlock just made him up."

Castle lent forward, elbows resting on her desk, eyes twinkling. "Maybe that's what they _want_ us to think! Wouldn't that be awesome? Think about it. Moriarty is actually real, but to save the world he has to kill himself. Only it's all just a magic trick and he's not _actually_ dead."

"He jumped off a building. A tall building. I don't think he'd be able to survive that, magic trick or not."

"But _fingerprints_, Beckett! Explain the fingerprints!"

"Well, maybe someone _did_ chop his fingerprints. But you can't prove it. He's managed to drop out of sight for _a year_. What makes you think we're going to be able to find him?"

"Because nobody looks for a ghost. If people think you're dead then you don't really register it if you see them in the streets. It's just a coincidence. A lookalike. How can they be walking around when they're supposed to be buried in the ground?"

"That doesn't explain how we're going to find him."

"Get an APB out. You may be pleasantly surprised."

* * *

As it turns out, the APB turns out something interesting in a couple of days. Not Sherlock Holmes, but someone as equally important.

"Doctor John Watson, I understand?"

"Yes. Though I don't understand why I'm here."

"Sherlock Holmes."

"Sherlock Holmes is dead." The ex-soldier replies, staring ahead, so completely deadpan.

"We found his fingerprints at a crime scene."

Neither Beckett nor Castle miss the flicker of surprise, or hope, or maybe even anger that flashes in Watson's eyes. "Is this some sort of joke? He's dead. I saw him fall off that building like a leaf off a tree. I saw his body, bloody and broken, lying on the pavement. I _buried_ him. He's _dead_."

"We're just as confused as you are, Mr. Watson. But you have to agree, Sherlock's fingerprints are on a body, and you just happen to be in New York at the same time?"

"Are you saying that I committed murder and then tried to frame it on somebody who _died_ a year and a half ago? What kind of plan is that?"

"Well, it works at confusing the police for a start."

"Yes, and the person you've come straight to is me. The person who has supposedly done the killing in the first place. Yeah, great plan."

"We're not trying to tarnish his memory here."

Watson scoffed. "No, Moriarty's done that well enough already."

Castle lent forward eagerly. "So it's true then? Moriarty was real?"

Watson almost seemed to laugh. "Of course he was real. It all was. Moriarty killed himself, which meant Sherlock had to do the same."

"That doesn't make sense."

"No, no it doesn't."

"Why?"

Watson shrugged, leaning back in his chair. "I have no idea. I've spent the past year trying to work it out. Moriarty was dead. There was no need for Sherlock to jump off that building. But he did, and I don't know why. And I don't know why his fingerprints are at your crime scene."

"That doesn't explain why you're in New York."

"Isn't a man allowed to go on holiday?"

"Where were you between seven pm and ten pm two days ago?"

"Ellens Stardust Diner, on Broadway. I was meeting with some old work friends."

"We'll need to check that, but in the meantime don't leave town."

"I'll be here for another week. Look, detective, Sherlock Holmes was my best friend. And if by some miraculous miracle he is somehow still alive… he's not a murderer. He's spent his life solving mysteries, and murders and I don't know what else, but he's not a murderer."

"That, John, is a matter of opinion." All three of them in the room turned to the door, finding a tall, windswept man in a long black coat leaning against the frame. "Good afternoon, Detective Beckett. I believe you were looking for me?"


	8. exhaustion

**A/N: for eevee. She knows why.**

**Disclaimer: if I owned Castle I would be able to afford to kidnap eevee and send her to Uzbekistan like her mother thought I would.**

* * *

_60. Exhaustion_

"Tired." she mutters against his shoulder when he'd finally got himself settled down on the hospital bed. "Very tired. Exhausted."  
"Oh, come on, Kate. It's not like you've just given birth to twins."  
She grunts, using whatever energy she has left to elbow his side. "They had your massive head."  
He chuckles, brushes his hand through her hair. She'll fuss (or would if she had the energy) and say wait until she's washed it, but he really couldn't care less. She just had his babies. Two of them. Two little girls with big blue eyes, small button noses and those impossibly high cheekbones. Evelyn and Rosie. Both too perfect for words. It's ridiculous. They're so small. He thought he was used to it after Alexis, but no. He's still left thoroughly speechless by the two miracles that are currently asleep in their double cot.  
"You can do the next one." Kate mumbles, turning onto her side using his shoulder as a pillow.  
"Next one? How many kids are you planning on having?"  
"Three. I always wanted three."  
He grins. "Kate Beckett planned a family. How cute."  
"With you. Planned a family with you."


	9. breakfast

**A/N: because pancakes**

**Disclaimer: WHY DO I HAVE TO LIVE IN ENGLAND WHY MUST ALL THE PROMOS BE ON AMERICAN TIME THIS IS NOT FAIR**

* * *

_83. Breakfast_

The sheets are barely covering her, wrapped around her hips, gathered up around her chest, leaving her legs, arms and back completely free. He could go over to her. Run his fingers up her arm, trailing over her neck, down her back. Soft warm skin, marked by a choice number of bruises. He's responsible for some of them, not ashamed to admit that he got a little carried away. On the bed. In the shower. During the Chinese. Couldn't keep his hands off her. But bruises or not, he's never seen her looking so peaceful. So carefree. And she's naked in his bed. And even she told him yesterday (or really early this morning) that was here and with him, there's still the tiny chance, the tiny part of him that believes she's going to wake up and run and no matter how much he tries, she'd never let him back. Maybe he's just staring at her because he wants to preserve the image of Kate Beckett naked and in his bed. The mug of coffee in his hands, he's not sure who he made it for, is going cold because all he can do is stare at her.

"Castle, are you just going to stand there with the cup of coffee or are you actually going to give it me?"

"I – sorry, thought you were still asleep."

"The smell of coffee tends to wake me up. Are you just going to stand there?"

"I don't know. I quite like the view from here." Castle replied, with only the slightest smirk.

"It's a lot nicer close up." Kate smiled, sitting up. "Trust me."

"I'm sure it is." He grinned. "But I thought you'd like some breakfast."

"Pancakes?"

"But Castle style."

Castle style, as it turned out, is adding chocolate and marshmallows and then folding the pancake over. And unhealthy as it is, Kate couldn't deny that the end result was good. More than good. Good enough to warrant two more.

"So, now what?"

"Huh?" Kate replied, wiping a finger around her plate to gather up what's left of the melted chocolate.

"What do we do now?"

"I don't know, Castle. It's summer. Go on holiday. Explore the city. Not get out of bed until past lunchtime."

"Kate Beckett likes lie ins. Noted."

She laughed. "Only if someone is lying in with me."

"I suppose that can be arranged." Castle got up to make himself another pancake and Kate propped her elbows on the counter, resting her chin in her cupped hands, watching him carefully.

"You're staring at me."

"Annoying, isn't it?"

"No, not really. It just means you can't keep your eyes off my ruggedly handsome good looks."

"Or maybe I'm waiting to see how long it takes for you to realise you have a giant blob of marshmallow on your chin."

Castle frowned, lifting a finger to wipe at his chin, ending up with gooey marshmallow running down his finger towards his knuckle. Kate shifted suddenly, walking around the counter and grabbing his hand before he could raise it to his mouth. Before Castle could even open his mouth to protest she was already sliding his finger past her lips, her tongue flicking against his skin.

"Th- that was…" he coughed. "er, my marshmallow."

Kate raised her eyes to him, releasing his finger with a pop. "So punish me."

He's not sure who started it (he's pretty sure it's six of one and half a dozen of the other) but all he knows right now is that he's currently licking a mixture of marshmallows and chocolate off Kate's collarbone. She's got her head tipped sideways, one hand tangled in his hair, the other gripping the edge of the counter she's sat on. One leg is wrapped loosely around his hips, keeping him there, but it's not like he plans on going anywhere particularly soon. Unless it's to the bedroom. Of all the fantasies that he ever cooked up in his mind, this one is in the top ten. Top five. Strangely enough, underneath the marshmallows and the chocolate, she tastes like him. He's not sure whether it's from his bed, or his shower but he's getting ginger and vanilla and it's over loading his senses. Kate's tugging on his hair more forcibly and he raises up, kisses her with one hand on the back of her neck, the other gliding over her thigh, underneath his shirt, over her hip.

"What do you want, Kate?" Castle asks, his voice husky.

"You. I want… need, you."

She's breathless, breathless and panting, and it amazes him, just how much he affects her. How much she wants him. Loves him. Kate Beckett loves him. Kate Beckett, the kick-ass, stubborn, sexy as hell woman loves _him_. Richard Castle. Richard Castle the procrastinating writer pretending to be a cop.

"We should probably move. Knowing my luck Alexis is going to walk in through that door, and I'm really not sure that she'd appreciate it."

"You'll have to carry me."

"Why, exactly?"

"You've turned my legs to jelly. Which is not something I say often." Kate lifted her other leg up and wrapped it around Castle's hips, tightening her hold and pushing against him, making Castle let out a very undignified squeak. "You squeaked."

"I didn't."

Kate grinned. "You so did."

"Well, your legs are jelly!"

"Yeah, so? I'm happy to admit to that. You. Squeaked."

"Take it as a compliment. I rarely squeak."

"Oh, I'm not taking it as a compliment. I'm taking it, and I am going to use it as blackmail. Now, move it, squeaker. Bedroom."


	10. midnight

**A/N: oh wow an update**

**Disclaimer: how I'm still alive after Hampton promo's I do not know**

* * *

_74. Midnight_

She's not sure whether it's the feel of his fingers against her bare skin that wakes her up, or whether it's the sound of his fingers against the keyboard. Part of her wonders whether he's actually aware of it, or whether he's just doing it because she's there. Random patterns on the back of her neck, down her spine, back up and into her hairline. She's always been surprised at his ability to type with only one hand.

"Castle…" she murmurs, turning her head towards him.

"Kate… thought you were asleep."

"Was." She replied, leaning on her elbows. "What are you writing?"

"Just… stuff."

"Stuff?"

"Yeah." He sighed, shut the laptop with a snap. "Needed to get things out. Helps me think."

Kate ran her fingers up his arm, his skin soft and warm and familiar. "Tough case." He nodded, sliding downwards in the bed until Kate could lie on her side next to him, one arm slung across his hips, the other propping her head up. "You wanna talk?"

"No, no I'm alright. I wrote what I needed to."

"Good. Was it Nikki Heat?"

"Could be, with a few changes. It's not… it doesn't fit the storyline for this book, but maybe another one. Or maybe I'll just leave it to fester on my hard drive and delete it when I've forgotten what it even says."

Kate propped her chin on Castle's chest, stared at a spot over his other shoulder. "Wish I could do that."

"What do you mean?"

"You get all this… stuff in your head, stuff that keeps you awake, and when you write it out, it leaves. Right? It doesn't bother you anymore. You've dealt with it. Everything in my head… it stays there. It's malignant, it just… doesn't go away. Just grows."

Castle wrapped an arm around her shoulders, pulled her even closer. "It's just my way of dealing with things. You have yours too."

"Shooting a paper target doesn't quite have the same effect."

"No, but it's damn sexy."

Kate elbowed him in the side. "You're not funny."

"That's a matter of opinion. I find myself hilarious."

"You find yourself a lot of things." Kate laughed, leaning over him, her mouth inches from his.

His gaze flicked downwards, and then back up to her eyes, the spark of arousal flickering in his pupils. "What do you find me?"

"Do you want the truth, or?"

"Preferably anything that sheds me in a good light."

Kate smirked, rising up on her knees so she could straddle him. His hands, purely from practice, find their way to her hips, tug her forwards slightly. "Thought we said no more lies."

"I'm the funny one in this relationship."

"You keep telling yourself that. Some day someone _might_ believe you." She arched against him as his fingers pressed a line up her spine, and he grinned. Damn him.

She sank against him, felt the hard muscle of his stomach against her skin, elbows either side of his ears, his mouth millimetres from hers. She could feel his breath coasting against her cheek, his hand rising up her back to the back of her neck, tangled in the loose ponytail that she stuck her hair in, pulled her down to press his mouth against hers. She wasn't sure if she meant for this to be arousing or comforting, but his grip on her neck is strong and he blunders her mouth, taking and taking while all she can do is try and breath. During the first few months she was good at surprising him in bed. She could roll him over and have him pinned to the bed before he had time to blink. But now, now he knows her – all of her – he retaliates, and she's the one surprised.

Surprises her now, when he rolls both of them and she sucks in air as his mouth leaves hers, finds a path across her jaw and down her neck, sucking, biting, open mouth kisses that leave her hips pushing into his. Needy. She needs him. Her fingers find purchase in his hair pulls his mouth away from her collarbone. He looks up at her, his eyes dim in the light, but she can see him smiling. He laughs, inches himself lower. A kiss between her breasts, above her navel, on her hip bone, his fingers tracing constantly following his mouth.

_Ohh._

* * *

He's quiet now, pressed against her back, his breath tickling her skin. He's humming something, a song she knows but can't name, soothing. Honestly, she does have a way of distracting herself from the thoughts inside her head. Castle is _very_ good at distracting her. With his goofy smile, and his blue eyes, his ridiculous theories, and his imaginative fingers, he takes the bad thoughts from her and replaces them. Makes her see the good in things. And that's really all she needs.


End file.
